Two Great Men
by Inuyashagirl7692
Summary: After suffering the loss of their friends, Sherlock and the Doctor happen to meet in a graveyard. John meets the Doctor, and then Clint Barton is sent to recruit Sherlock as a temporary Avenger
1. A Chance Encounter

Two Great Men

"How long do you planning on staying here, Sherlock?" A tall man in a long black coat, who had been previously preoccupied with thoughts of his mourning friends, whirled upon hearing the name. The edges of his coat flared up behind him, giving even his startled turn a hint of drama, which fitted well on the graveyard's stage. The reason for this solemn man's agitation was, of course, no one was supposed to know he was alive.

Instead of finding John or Mycroft behind him, as he had half-feared/half-hoped, his eyes fell upon a young man dressed in an old man's clothes. The face was a good one, with a strong chin and calculating eyes, but it hardly fit him. If anything, his apparent youth, contrasted with his world-weary eyes and bearing, struck a cord of unexplainable fear in Sherlock. He quickly stuck that fear inside a box, buried that box under his mind palace, and then created a new mind palace to replace the old one, since the old one had been promptly scheduled for an explosive demolition.

A gun shot its way out of Sherlock's sleeve. He kept it trained on the smiling head of the deceptively innocuous being before him. The stranger didn't even flinch. Not even a trace of fear or surprise could be found.

"Who are you? What are you?" Sherlock growled. He kept his voice low for fear someone may hear him, even though the sun had gone down a full hour ago.

"Oh, that's unusual. Already with the "what"? What gave me away my "what" may I ask?"

"You can ask whatever you like, but I may not answer. However, you _will_ listen to me. If you so much as breathe a word of my presence here to anyone, I will end you."

_I'll burn you. I'll burn the HEART out of you._

It was just the chilling night air that had almost spurred Sherlock to shudder. He suppressed the shudder as best he could. Surely, it had been indiscernible to human eyes, merely a slight tightening of the muscles. So why did he feel that the stranger before him had seen it?

"You humans", the being replied, with an all encompassing wave of his hand, "always so arrogant." That struck a cord. Maybe it was his tone or his bearing, but Sherlock couldn't believe that someone who was so obviously used to condescension had just called him arrogant.

"So you don't consider yourself a human? Is that why you dress for attention?" A slight narrowing of the eyes on the baby face let him know he was on the right track. "At first, I thought you dressed in a manner which would best allow you to attract children." This was met with blank incomprehension, and Sherlock caught himself wondering whether he had overestimated the man's intelligence. "So you could abduct them." He watched the strange man absorb this new information. As what Sherlock was trying to say dawned on him, his eyes flashed from brown, like murky water, to dark green, to light blue, before finally settling on a stormy and electrifying deep mix of blue, green, and violet.

"Harm a child?" Sherlock observed the rise of his voice and straightening of his posture with interest, even as he mentally noted that his gun arm was getting tired. "I would never! I would rather blow up a thousand suns than harm a child."

"I imagine blowing up a thousand suns might harm many children, if you blow up the wrong ones."

A stricken look came over the young looking face. Not for first time in the life, Sherlock regretted saying something he shouldn't have. He never meant, never wanted, to hurt those who got close to him. It just seemed to happen. It was better then if no one got close.

"Yes, I imagine it might." His eyes flickered nervously at the sky as though searching for the sun, which was strange. First, it was nighttime, and therefore, no sun to be found. And second, careless words alone could never blow up a sun.

"Tell me, what should I call you?" The words tumbled out in a friendlier tone than the young detective would have liked.

"Put the gun down and I will." Without a second thought, the arm holding the gun fell harmlessly to Sherlock's side. "Shouldn't you put the safety on?"

"It's safe enough. Now, what should I call you?"

"Doctor."

Sherlock blinked.

"Okay."

The Doctor blinked.

"That's it? Just 'Okay'."

"Would you prefer I called you something else? I can only assume that Doctor is what you wish for me to address by, since that is the title you have given. It could be an alias, or a name, but I am interested in neither. I am, however, interested in you."

"Shall we trade then? Information for information?" The Doctor seemed pleased by this turn of events, especially since a gun was no longer being pointed at his forehead. Now they were just two intelligent men talking at night in a graveyard. And just imagine it, he was talking to Sherlock Holmes! Young, real, and living in the 21st century.

"Alright, I'll go first." Sherlock said.

The Doctor acquiesced with a slight, enthusiastic nod of his head.

"Are you human?," Sherlock queried.

"No."

"Can you prove that?"

"Yes."

"Well then do so!"

Awfully impatient this one, thought the Doctor. He held out his hand for the young detective to hold, and was met with a quizzically raised eyebrow.

"Take my pulse," the Doctor explained. Instantly, he felt two rough hands grab his wrist.

"Fascinating! Two pulses. Two hearts… Is there anything else?"

"Shoot me, and I'll regenerate into a completely different person before your very eyes," he said without thought, as he gingerly rubbed his wrist. A wide grin spread across Sherlock's features as he prepared to shoot the strangely dressed alien before him, but the alien panicked.

"I didn't mean shoot me now!" The Doctor shouted, while motioning for Sherlock to put his gun down.

"Can I shoot you later then?"

"No! Would you let me shoot you to ascertain your humanity?"

"Perhaps I would, but you hate guns. You can barely stand the sight of this one. Bad experience?"

"It that your second question?"

Was that his second question? How many questions would he have? How much did he want to know? Well, the answer was everything, wasn't it? Because he could never know everything. And if he never knew everything, if there was always another problem left for him to solve, than he would never be… bored.

_STAYING ALIVE! SO BORING, ISN'T IT?!_

The desire to shake the thought off like a wet dog struck him again, but he ignored it.

"I'll answer your question regardless." The Doctor continued.

How long had he been silent?

"My fear of guns is not due to a bad experience, rather it is due to a fear of myself. I don't need a gun to steal lives and ravage planets. Just this," he gestured to his brain. "The reason for why I dress in such a nonsensical fashion is this: I hate seeing the fear I feel towards myself reflected in the eyes of those I love. Or those I wish to love me."

"You wish to be loved by _everyone_, but have you ever loved _anyone_?"

Rage consumed the Doctor's heart as his hands clutched spasmodically at a pair of women's reading glasses in his front pocket.

"Of course, I have loved! I have loved more deeply than a human like you would ever know", dark eyes glittered dangerously in the lantern light, but Sherlock wasn't afraid this time. "I loved Amy. And Rory. And Donna. And Mickey. And Rose. And Susan. I loved them all, but all of them left me."

"Those names… Years ago, people started going missing for stretches of time."

"There is a version of me in this universe?"

"Shut up, I'm talking. And stop gaping, you're not stupid and I know you aren't so stop trying to look it. Don't argue or I'll be forced to have you to turn around while I speak."

The Doctor shut his mouth and fumed silently.

"Years ago, people started going missing for stretches of time", he continued. "Some of them never came back. Are you telling me you are responsible for that?"

"Yes, but it's not as though I offer them candy and say, 'Come with me on my magic flying spaceship'.

"Don't you? All those people you tempt into flying with you on whatever you use, did you actually warn them that they might never come back? Or did you say, 'do you want to go on an adventure'?"

A wince and a violent shudder told Sherlock he'd hit a nerve.

"It's their choice to come with me. It's their choice to put their life in my hands."

"Is that what you tell yourself when you fail them?"

"No! It's what I tell myself every time I'm about to trick a new one!"

"So you admit it's a trick! They believe in you. They expect you to protect them, but you've already given up on them before they've even entered your damn ship!"

"Exactly! That's why I need to find someone who cannot die. Someone I don't have to protect!"

"People die! That's what they DO!" Sherlock countered.

"The Universe owes me!" The Doctor howled, his face demented by pain and a hint of madness. "It owes me, and it will OBEY me!" He stopped abruptly, whole body tensing with a realization even Sherlock couldn't have guessed in his current state.

"That's not how the Universe works! It doesn't say 'thank you'. It doesn't reward good deeds, and it doesn't take orders from lonely old men!" Again, the Doctor physically confirmed what Sherlock had only suspected. So he truly wasn't as young as he looked. Although he didn't usually research alien sightings, he'd probably be doing a lot of research when he got back to the apartment he had bought under a false name.

Now that Sherlock knew that loss and fear were this man's (for he was man, despite his planetary origins) weaknesses, he could step on his open wounds. Already the man was bleeding and it was exhilarating. Bleed more. Feel more pain.

The man with the bow tie seemed to have brought his breathing under control somewhat, though he seemed a little startled. However, Sherlock wasn't prepared for his question.

"Why do you want me to do, then?"

For once, Sherlock was silent. Several years seemed to carve themselves into the face he had once thought of as young.

"It's my turn now." The Doctor said, his voice hoarse. "Who have you lost?"

"All of my friends." Sherlock answered, it came naturally, as though the words had been waiting there on the tip of his tongue. Suddenly young again, the Doctor tried to crane his neck so he could get a better glimpse at the marble gravestone he'd seen his (former?) favorite detective staring at earlier. "Don't look at the gravestone." Shadows deepened the lines on the Doctor's face, making his grim smile seem truly fearsome.

"Sound advice. If only everyone listened to it."

"Was that how you lost her?" Sherlock asked, without much tact.

"The answer is yes. However, I believe it's my turn to ask questions."

Sherlock nodded his head minutely in acknowledgment. It was the closest thing to an apology the Doctor figured he was ever going to get.

"Are your friends dead?"

"No."

"Well, than who is?"

Surely Sherlock Holmes wouldn't be standing in a graveyard if someone weren't dead. Unless… he was grave digging!

"I am."

Two words, simply and plainly spoken, broke through the Doctor's thoughts. They mirrored the thoughts he had never expressed, not even to those closest to him. If he had told River or Amy how dead he sometimes felt inside, they would have tried to comfort him or told him to cheer up. River might have even slapped him. But he didn't want to be comforted, or slapped; he wanted someone to just accept it. Accept that sometimes a man can only lose so much before the world no longer feels like a beautiful place, before food tastes like ash, and the dreamless bliss of eternal rest seems like a much better alternative to facing his reflection in the mirror.

It was for this reason that he wouldn't comfort the boy. He wasn't going say something pithy like, "I've seen dead people and you're not dead."

"Maybe you are." He said instead. "Maybe you're dead now. But one of the great things about living is: you can always come back to life!" Mildly confused, the Doctor wondered where those words had come from.

The young boy, for he was a young boy despite his great intelligence, stared off into the distance. There was a blank look in his eyes that the Doctor disliked. He disliked it greatly.

"A long time ago, I was on the side of the angels. It wasn't a side I had chosen, but when you have angels by your side what other side can you be on?"

In his mind's eye, the Doctor thought he saw one of the stone angels at the very edge of his vision turn to face Sherlock. The stone angel was a small child… and it was smiling.

...

"But now the angels are-"

The Doctor leapt to cover his mouth with one hand, while surreptitiously grabbing his sonic screwdriver with other. Before Sherlock could tear his hand away, the Doctor whispered furiously, "Don't blink. There are monsters here who will kill you if you do." Something wet and slimy ran its way up and down the hand he was using to cover Sherlock's face. He recoiled as though the boy had bitten him.

"Ew. Gross!" Merely wiping his hand on his pants would never rid him of the grossness. Sherlock was sporting a strangely satisfied smile.

"Mycroft would also try to shut me up with that method, but I know his weakness."

"Let me guess, your brother hates germs.

"Yes he does!"

"I'm glad you're enjoying your momentary triumph but as we are currently in mortal danger, please put away your smugness and concentrate on leaving this graveyard alive. My Tardis is parked right outside. We just have to get in it and go."

"I can't just turn it off!" Sherlock said, indignant, before continuing, "You said that if I blinked they would be able to kill us, right? So basically, we have to be viewing them at all times. As this seems to have more to do with sight than whether or not you blink, please tell me you parked your spaceship under a lamp."

The Doctor looked at him dubiously, "Um, sorry?"

"Say that again, and I will turn the safety off on my gun. Then I will shoot you. For science."

"Wait, the saftey's been on this whole time?"

"Why would I point a gun at my foot if the safety wasn't on?" He stated it as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

"Your priorities are screwed up! What about my forehead? My forehead?!"

"It's slightly larger than normal," Sherlock deadpanned.

"No! Was it on when it was pointed at my head?"

A high pitched giggle echoed a few steps behind Sherlock. It came again, closer than before.

"…Not sure"

"How can you not be sure?"

"I don't remember trivial details."

"Whether or not I was in mortal danger is NOT a trivial detail!"

Little by little, with every blink the two made, the angels drew closer to their prey. It was so easy. Despite being aware of their existence, the two seemed so distracted by each that eating their potential would be almost disappointingly easy. Most of the Weeping Angels liked it better when their prey was afraid. Just as a stone child was about to touch Sherlock, a monstrous grin distorting its angelic face, and more conventional Angel was about to grab the Doctor's jacket, the two men simultaneously closed their eyes, and tackled each other to the ground.

For a while, the Doctor dreaded the thought of opening his eyes, but Sherlock started to wriggle in his grasp.

"If you don't let go soon, the colonists are going to talk."

The Doctor's eyes snapped open, and he stood with a start, which led to him bumping his head rather sharply on the Weeping Angel's arm. He leapt back, tripping over the child before landing roughly on his bum. It was with a feeling of relieved disbelief that he realized their plan had worked. The two Weeping Angels were forever frozen in time.

Despite suspecting what he would find, he glanced over at Sherlock. The boy was staring at him with glittering mischief in his eyes, and an amused smirk.

"I told you 'I can't just turn it off'."

It was amazing how they'd thought of the same strategy. They were very similar, in personality, intelligence, and tragedy. That similarity had probably saved their current lives.

"Do you want to destroy them?" Sherlock asked, lazily gesturing at the Angels as he lay back to watch the stars.

"I can't."

"Why not?"

"I've tried." The despair in the Doctor's voice filled the very air they breathed.

"Do you hate them?"

"Yes."

"Because they are monsters?"

"In part, yes."

"And you're not?"

"I know I'm a monster." The Doctor said, a tone of finality in his voice. He laid back to watch the stars, and wondered how long it had been since he had thought of them as beautiful.

"Maybe. Maybe you're a monster and I'm dead." Sherlock mused.

Turning over on his side slightly, the Doctor queried, "Would you like to come with me? Be my companion?" Sherlock snorted.

"You mean keep you entertained until you find your immortal toy? No thanks. As interesting as being with you is, I would not give my brain or my life for that time. Also, I'm tired. I cared about people, and they were taken from me. Maybe I'm not as strong as you, but I don't think I could take losing someone I cared about again. I'd rather be alone. And you're suicidal." The Doctor made a sound as if to protest. "No, don't deny it. You parked your ship in a dark spot because you wanted to die, but I screwed up your scheme."

"I was hoping you would leave before the sun went down." The Doctor sheepishly admitted.

"You don't have to die, but if you'd like to be less of a monster-"

The Doctor felt his attention rise.

"Be honest with your companion. Tell her she may die on your adventure, or worse. Tell her she may never see her home or family again. Tell her how, sometimes, you can't always keep your promises. There may even come a time when she screams out your name, but you won't hear her, or you will, but you won't save her. And lastly, tell her how hard it is for you to love. You're not human, but for a friend or someone who cares for you, I doubt it's easy to remember that."

"I'd rather they forgot." Who knew honesty could hurt two hearts so much?

"But you don't want to give up the power only you have." Sherlock could understand this of course. If he gave up about a 100 IQ points, he'd be able to speak with Anderson as an equal. Not that he'd ever want to speak to Anderson. "I had these friends who accepted me. They treated me like an equal. They taught me how to care."

Dark, intelligent eyes glanced at Sherlock, and he was suddenly very aware that he was speaking to an alien.

"Are you happy? Are you happy that you care now?"

"Caring gave my enemies a weakness to use against me, but I could not have known happiness without them. I'm not happy that I care. I'm happy that there was once a time when I cared. There was once a time when I was happy, and I will treasure that time, but that time is over now."

The Doctor stood up and brushed his pants off. It wasn't time for the sun to rise yet, but he was confident that it would. For now, there were only millions of balls of glittering gas and rock in the sky. That wasn't so bad.

As he passed the Weeping Angels, he entertained a momentary urge to draw funny pictures on their faces, but decided against it.

"Goodbye, Sherlock. I hope we meet again."

"I'd prefer we didn't actually. Statues never attacked me before I met you, you see."

The Doctor rolled his eyes.

"Humans. Always blaming me."

As the man with his freshly straightened bow tie was about to reach the gate, he heard, "And make sure you don't invite any more kids to your ship with promises of candy or adventure!"

His breathe rushed out in a frustrated huff, "That is not what I-" The image of a young Scottish girl with red hair and freckles popped into his head. But that was justified, he assured himself. Totally doesn't count.

He looked back at Sherlock in time to see the boy glaring suspiciously at his person… before he turned and started booking it towards the relative safety of the Tardis.

A/N: I hope you enjoyed this story. In case you didn't realize, it takes place a few hours after Watson leaves Sherlock's grave, and after the Snowmen in Doctor Who. There were a few things I wanted to include but didn't in the end. 1) Part of the reason Sherlock is so hostile to the Doctor is he reminds him of Moriarty. 2) Sherlock was supposed to say this, "He thinks I overestimate him, but he underestimates himself far more." And lastly, please review. Thank you

Review Response:

Sundapple: Thank you so much for such a nice review, and I definitely appreciate your criticisms. When I was writing this, I didn't exactly have a written out plan, though I am thinking of trying that in the future. The Doctor being slightly suicidal (he didn't actually think he'd lose to the Angels) was something I used to answer the question, "Why did he park the Tardis in a dark spot?". It also helped when I had to explain why Sherlock didn't want to be a companion. Of course, it's more than just the danger or the possibility of being faced with new loss that kept Sherlock from flying in the Tardis. In fact, he'd love to go, but he'd never leave Molly, John, and Mrs. Hudson to fend for themselves.

Lastly, why angels? Originally, they weren't going to be in here, but then Sherlock had to go and say "angel" in a graveyard. With the Doctor, that's like tempting fate. If the conversation had continued as it was going... It would have been interesting.


	2. A Meddlesome Encounter

**A/N:Thank you to everyone who liked/reviewed/followed/read/favorited the first part of the story. Originally, I thought this was a one shot. Then it occurred to me that the Doctor could still be looking for his new companion while dropping in to see Sherlock every now and then. Knowing Sherlock, he probably appreciates this, but isn't very honest about it. And the Doctor can be very meddlesome. Anyway, I hope you like this. It's a lot longer than I thought it was going to be.**

* * *

Tick. Tick. Tick.

A beaten brown clock ticked the seconds by as rain streaked down the dirty windows panes of a cheap urban apartment. The clock knew more than most clocks knew; it had once ticked away seconds in a desert.

For many years, the clock's master had taken good care of it. Then he lent it to his friend, and suddenly the clock knew what hell was. The master's friend had tried to shoot it (master stopped him), had thrown it against walls, and had slammed its button like he was trying to drive the clock into the Earth's core. But now the master's friend was gone, and the clock sometimes caught itself wishing he weren't. Everything just seemed a little duller without him around.

It was okay, though. The master may be sad, but since he still takes care of the clock…

A wearied man, sitting slumped on his bed, suddenly pulled himself to his feet. Filled with hope, the little clock on the desk wondered if its master was finally going to go outside.

John Watson took a few quick steps towards the clock, gripped it in his hands, and pitched it at the wall. It died with a crash and an explosion of parts, but John was just relieved that the ticking had ceased.

….

"John, please talk to me. You've been hauled up in your apartment for months and mom is starting to get worried. We're all starting to get worried."

"Sorry for the inconvenience, Harry, but I'm a big boy, and I can take care of myself." John muttered, quietly but with heat.

"Listen, I know I'm not the one you want to hear this from, but you should see someone about this, you know? Like a therapist… or maybe a doctor."

"I do see a doctor, Harry. I call him Dr. Watson and he gives me a clean bill of psychiatric health everyday."

"And no, you can't count seeing your face in the mirror as seeing a doctor." Synchronized frustrated sighing issued from the answering machine and from between John's teeth. How was it that even on an answering machine she could be this insufferable?

"Listen, John, I know you don't want to talk to me, but you have to talk to someone or you're never going to get past this… I'll call you again in a couple hours. Please pick up next time; I'm getting tired of hearing, 'Please leave a message after the beep. BEEP'. What's the point of that automaton's message, anyway? Even if she says 'please' it's not going to make me change my mind. If I don't feel like leaving a message, I won't. Sometimes," She added in a low conspiritorial tone, "I feel like leaving a message that says, "No! I'm going to hang up without leaving a message, and there is nothing you can do to stop me! Ha ha ha!"

Something rare and fleeting entered John's broken down apartment. It was a smile.

"Good. You're smiling. Don't try to deny it, because I know you are." There was a long pause, before she continued, "I love you, John. I miss you, and I just want you to know that I want what's best for you. You were there for me during a rough patch of my life. I knew I wasn't alone because you were always there, a passive aggressive yet comforting presence by my side. So, please John, when you're ready, just let me know. I'm practically waiting by the phone with bated breath for your call." There were a few seconds of expectant breathing before John finally heard the soft click of the line disconnecting.

The silence that greeted him as the machine faded was overwhelming. There was still the clock, ticking away like a maniac, but the sound of warmth and love his sister had momentarily given him was gone.

She hadn't been part of it. It hadn't been her fault. He shouldn't be worrying her like this.

The thoughts came and went like an afternoon shower. It was hard, so incredibly hard for him not to push away everyone. It wasn't because he was grieving or suicidal (of course, there was a gun under his pillow, but that was solely for protection purposes… until further notice), it was because the country he'd fought for in a war had driven his best friend to suicide. If he had known how damn petty the world could be, he'd have gotten Sherlock out of the country the moment he'd met him.

Being friends with someone smarter than you wasn't something to resent, it was something to work for. Sherlock is- was vibrant. He was like a burning ball of fire, and everybody else just paled in comparison. But that wasn't his bloody fault!

He didn't know why anyone would want to help him. He didn't know why anyone would want to protect him. He didn't understand the concept of love. Treated like a freak and a psychopath, he still chose to be a detective. But where did that get him? It got him a reputation as a fraud and a one-way ground trip. Because God forbid, there be someone as clever, as bright, as brilliant as him walking on the same filthy ground as the rest of us. How could anyone truly be so smart and so selfless at the same time? He must be a fraud, right? Where were all the people he'd seen Sherlock help when he'd needed them? Where was his brother? And why? Why couldn't he have saved him? Why couldn't he have protected him? John still had so much to teach Sherlock, like why keeping decapitated heads in the freezer could spoil food and scare landladies, but he couldn't change any of that now.

_Why does it upset you?_

Sherlock knew a lot, more than most people, but there were a lot of things he needed John's help to understand. But John didn't- he couldn't have known, that he'd never have time to. If he'd known he would have said something. If he'd only known he never would have-

_You machine!_

The words echoed in his head, and he found he couldn't sit on his bed anymore. A million frantic thoughts coursed through his brain like fire, and the ticking wouldn't stop! He gripped the clock he'd had since he'd began his tour in the Middle East and smashed it against the wall. There was an explosion of sound, but his face remained an impassive mask. Just stopping a clock wouldn't change what he'd done.

Worn fingers felt for the cool metal of the gun he hid under his pillow. Just as he used to do in his military days, he traced the hard lines and scratches. Each one brought back a memory of triumph and fear. This was how he remembered who he was. This was how he knew he was alive.

He knew he couldn't just shoot a smiley face into the wall like Sherlock had, but maybe his mattress? It could work.

Just as he was getting ready to take aim, there came a loud bang from the direction of his door. John swung the gun around, halting the sure long stride of the young looking man who DID. NOT. BELONG. IN. HIS. ROOM.

"Well, hello. I'm the doctor." The gun pointing at his forehead seemed to be the source of some disconcertion for him. "And this has been happening to me far too often, lately."

"You're a doctor? Did my brother send you?" John improvised, without lowering the gun an inch. The boy before him hardly looked old enough to be a doctor, and if he was a doctor, whoever approved his medical license obviously deserved to be thrown in a loony bin with a locked door and a wild cat.

"Yes."

"Liar. I don't have a brother."

So, a locked door, a wild cat, and a grizzly bear for good measure.

There was a tense second before the Doctor continued, "And you know this for a fact?"

"Tell me why you're here. Do you work for Moriarty?" He spat the name like venom.

"I'll tell you if you put the gun down."

"I'll shoot you if you don't tell me." John flatly countered.

"What are the chances the safety is on and you're just bluffing me?" There was a loud click as the gun cocked.

"Less than zero." Just as John was growling these words, thunder shook the building. Then a bolt of lightning streaked across the sky. In the back of his mind, he came to the conclusion that if he ever made a list of coolest coincidences, that would be in the top ten.

"Oh. Well, best to come clean then." The Doctor decided. "The truth is I have come here to keep you from killing that mattress." The tone he used suggested the matter was one of the utmost gravity.

"What?"

"That mattress has done nothing to harm you, and there's no coming back from harming a defenseless mattress."

He's insane, John thought. Or he's pretending to be insane so I'll lower my guard.

"If the mattress had done something to harm me, would it have been all right for me to shoot it?" Somehow, he'd spent so much time talking with Sherlock that playing along with logic he didn't quite understand was almost second nature.

"No. Because if you kill the mattress, you will become just like the mattress."

"I'll lie down on my back all day? Yeah, that would be a shame. You haven't told me one true thing since you walked in here, and trying to distract me by pretending to be a mad man isn't going to work."

"Who's pretending?" The strange man with the bow tie said, and gave a nonchalant shrug of his shoulders. "But I can prove that I have a medical license." He reached slowly into his jacket, keeping eye contact with John, and pulled out a wallet-sized cardholder. With a smug flair, the man opened the cardholder and held it out for John to see.

He wasn't impressed.

"The paper's blank." John pointed out. The Doctor rocked back on his heels, a look of pure shock plastered on his face.

"What?!" He checked the paper himself and saw absolutely nothing written on it. "How can you be immune to psychic paper?"

"I'm not sure what you're talking about, but my guess is you just tried to trick me."

While fiddling with his thumbs, the Doctor replied, "Trick is a harsh word. Bamboozle maybe?"

"Sure. Let's go with a synonym and say it's that. Just to recap, you've intruded on my privacy for no reason other to be a general nuisance, is that about right?" His gun arm lowered, but tension still flooded the room as the Doctor realized John was about to force him to leave. Well, that wouldn't do. He hadn't given the poor man an ounce of hope yet.

"I was a soldier too" The Doctor blurted. He immediately regretted his words though, since, despite catching John's attention, they meant he would have to explain some of his past without saying anything about Gallifrey. Of course, he wasn't exactly looking forward to speaking about his past either.

If John had been a Dalek, he would have killed the Doctor.

"Oh, how did you know?" His words dripped with acid. "Was it because of the way I made my bed? Forty-five degree hospital corners and sheets that you could bounce a quarter off _if_ I hadn't been sitting on it all day? And you can tell because of the warmth of the sheets and the depth of my arse's depression on the bed? Is that about right? No, wait! Maybe it's the gun? Military issued, isn't it? Registered to a soldier. Or maybe it's my eyes? Can you see the horrors, the violence of war in my eyes?" One free hand ran through his already hawkish hair as he struggled to calm his breathing.

"You were a doctor," the Doctor said quietly.

"I had bad days. I still have them sometimes." The ghost of a smile flitted across his face. There wasn't a trace of joy in it. "Today might be a bad day."

"You're not going to kill me." The certainty in the Doctor's tone threw John off for a second. "You are a doctor. You heal people. You save people."

"You're wrong, and you don't know a thing about me. Get out!"

"Please, listen to me!" There was a sudden desperate energy in the Doctor; he would have grabbed the cracking man by his shirt if he didn't mind being shot. "There were many people I wasn't able to protect. There are still people I can't protect, but I keep trying anyway? And do you know why?"

John gritted out, "Fine, I'll bite. Why?"

"Because if I don't have people to protect, I really will go insane. And if that happens, I'll become no better than a monster. I've met others who were like me once, before they lost everything, and I have to believe that they can come back, because if they can't and one day this world saving takes its toll on me, I have to believe that I can be brought back. So here I am, trying to bring you back. You can't give up on this world, John, just because there are a few bad apples in it. Sherlock was an inhabitant of this world, wasn't he?"

"Yeah. Past tense." Something in the Doctor knew this was against his better judgment, but if it meant snapping the poor man out of his guilt ridden state... Perhaps a little callousness was due.

"Oh, come on, now. Humans die all the time, and you only lost one." Before the Doctor had even taken another breath, John had gripped him by his tweed jacket, and threw him into the door. The Doctor lay sprawled out on the floor for the second. And the moment he tried to stand, John sent him back down again with a right hook to the jaw.

" 'Humans' this. 'Saving this world' that. Who do you think you are? God? Even if everything is true and not a load of hogwash, what idiot would ask you to put your sanity on the line to save a world and a race that you think you don't belong to? Aren't you a human as well? Isn't this world yours as much as mine? Oh, and talk about Sherlock's death like that again, and I really will shoot you. Consequences be damned."

"I once riled up a good friend of mine's husband by talking like that." Blood speckled the Doctor's lower lip. "He had a similar reaction."

"If you talked his wife like that I'm surprised you can still talk at all." The air had lightened considerably, and John's grimness was finally being tempered with some of his old levity. It was a good thing interacting with the Doctor tended to have that effect on people… Or maybe it was just punching him.

"Yeah, well, we weren't complete and total strangers then", the Doctor replied. "And he didn't have a gun at the time. He did have a laser built into his arm, though." John gave him a level look.

"You're very strange, and quite probably mad. Sherlock would have liked you. Maybe he'd try to open up your brain and see what makes you tick." He paused for a second. At least long enough for the Doctor to reflect on the fact that Sherlock had indeed asked for permission to 'open him up' as the soldier had so aptly put it. "You're older than you look aren't you?" John throw a cautious glance at the stranger with the bow tie before tossing his gun on the bed.

"Is that the best an average mind can come up with? I'm just older than I look?" The stranger watched with wonder as John's face broke out into a small grin. His facial muscles almost seemed to have forgotten the motion.

"Oh, give me a break, Sher- I mean, sorry. I haven't slept in a while. What should I call you?"

"Just Doctor"

"Okay."

The Doctor threw up his hands in exasperation.

…..

It was a few days afterwards the Doctor managed to coax John into going on a walk with him.

"John?"

The man standing beside him was intently staring at the blossoming tree buds, but he acknowledged the Doctor with a grunt.

"Do you ever wish you could just forget the things that cause you pain?"

"Meeting Sherlock you mean?"

"Yes."

"No."

The response stopped the strangely dressed man in his tracks. White flower petals pooled around his feet as John kept walking forward. After a few steps, he realized the Doctor was no longer beside him. Concerned, the former soldier turned around to see his companion standing stock still a few paces behind him.

"Why not?" The words floated on the wind, as light as a feather, but John heard them.

"It would be a betrayal, both to him and myself. I don't regret meeting Molly, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, or My- Well, maybe I regret meeting Mycroft. But that's because I'm still a little bitter about the whole selling-out-your-brother thing." He shrugged. "I'm a doctor, not a saint. Anyway, forgetting all the good times I had with them, and the things I experienced, the things I learned, it would be like killing Sherlock a second time. I'm weak, but not weak enough to equate ignorance with happiness, and certainly not weak enough to kill the memory of a friend." Just weak enough to let one die, a voice in his head whispered.

"I've lived a long life, and I still haven't decided which of those two is more tempting." There was a short pause. "Or more dangerous."

"A lot of things worth doing are dangerous." John replied, thinking of certain cane he had left behind. "If there ever comes a day when you ask me that question again, and I say, 'Yes', then shoot me, because whatever thing you're talking to, though it may look like me and sound like me, it sure as hell isn't me."

"That's very admirable, but I don't use guns."

John shot him an evaluating look.

"You said you were a soldier once."

"Yes, I did, didn't I? Perhaps it would be more accurate to say I don't like guns, but I've used far worse in my lifetime, and done far worse than a single gun ever could."

"There you go again, talking like a thousand year old alien or something. I honestly don't know what to make of you, Doctor. Are you a delusional man who read about me online, tracked me down and decided to give me a pep talk? Or are you just pulling my leg?"

"Has it ever occurred to you that I may be telling the truth?" The Doctor countered. The fact that John had basically just arrived at the very answer he was searching for did not fail to amuse him, and it showed in a smile John couldn't help but find irritating. "What if I told you I was a thousand or so year old alien from another planet? What would you say?"

"Well, I would ask two questions." The Doctor nodded, and John continued, "First, do you have proof?" A low chuckle issued from John's companion, but he didn't question it just yet. "And second, is Sherlock from the same planet?"

The Doctor seemed to grow red in the face and sputter; words utterly failing him, until he settled down to a low simmer.

They had stopped walking down the sidewalk entirely. Completely removed from the two as they spoke, were at least half a dozen children of varying size and age playing on a newly built playground. The city of Kingston upon Hull had received an anonymous donation for the park, and as the letter had requested, the park had a climbable rocket ship in it, four miniature cars with enough room for four children, and a model of the solar system. Above all else, the anonymous donor had desired the children see a glimpse of the Heavens above them, because, in his words, "There are just some things we shouldn't take for granted."

The Doctor responded, rather heatedly, to John's latter question with, "What in the world would make you say that?"

"Sometimes when you look at me," John explained as he began to stride forward again. Even as he spoke, he stole a glance at the model of the solar system in the playground. "It's like you're seeing a surprisingly intelligent pet or a bright child, rather than an equal. He was like that at first. Sometimes I wondered if he was even human, but that changed after I got to know him better. The second question was a joke, Doctor. I know Sherlock is human. I know it more than anyone else, with the possible exception of-" He quickly cut himself off and berated himself fiercely for almost giving away the name of one of Sherlock's few friends.

Eventually, the two men reached a shaded part of the park, and continued their conversation where they hoped they would have a little more privacy. Below their feet, was a mural of a large sun made of children's handprints.

"This friend of yours, do you really think he was the sort of person to take his own life?"

John pondered this for a moment. He'd been wondering the same thing for months, after all.

"No." There was a confidence behind his words he hadn't expected to hear. "He's risked it before, but he's never been suicidal. Sherlock was murdered."

"He jumped off a roof. He called you to leave a suicide note."

John rounded on him.

"You think I don't know that? I was there. I heard him, and I can tell the difference between a man who is despairing, and man who is under duress." Disturbed by the sudden outburst, at least a dozen birds took off from the tree tops, casting a transient shadow over the two.

"Because you were a soldier?" The Doctor inquired, his voice slightly lower than usual.

"Because I was his friend!"

"And why would he be under duress?

"I don't know. Maybe Moriarty had something on him."

"Guess. I'll even give you a hint. We share the same weakness." The Doctor crossed his arms and waited.

"He'll go insane if he doesn't have somebody to hold his leash and sing his praises?" John guessed. It wasn't exactly a bad one, but the Doctor paid it no heed.

"He had no weaknesses," he clarified, and John realized, not for the first time, that he had met another man who liked to ask questions and then answer them himself. "Then he met someone who showed him companionship, and what it was like to be treated with understanding, to be cared about and liked. That is what begets weakness in great men. It is also part of what makes a great man, a good one."

"What are you trying to say? That his death is my fault?"

"If he had never known you, he never would have jumped off that roof." Once again, the Doctor received a powerful right hook to the jaw. "Ow! What was that for?"

"I was wrong. You're not like Sherlock, but I have a feeling you know more than you're telling so I can't just up and walk away, now can I? Oh, and you still haven't answered the first question. Do you have proof that you're actually an alien and not just a prick? Or were you just trying to be clever? Because I've seen clever before, and I can't say you compare."

Everybody's a critic, the slightly peeved Time Lord thought.

Since he just been walloped, and sent sprawling to ground, the Doctor did not actually want to say; 'Shoot me and I'll regenerate'. In his mind, he conjured up an image of John getting ready to shoot him with a mad gleam in his eyes. Nope, that was a memory of Sherlock.

"I have two hearts. You can check my pulse."

"A doctor could have given you two hearts." John countered with ease. "It's called a heterotopic transplant. You have a diseased heart, so the doctor pairs that heart with a healthy one. Then you go around using the two hearts as proof that you're an alien."

The Doctor sighed. He hated dealing with Agent Scully's. Of course, he shouldn't have expected anything less from a John Watson.

"If you shoot me," the Doctor spoke awkwardly to the sidewalk, "I'll regenerate into a completely different person before your very eyes." He looked up, dreading what he would see, but was relieved to see that John had not immediately pulled his firearm out. He was twitching a little, though.

"It's a public area" John said by way of explanation, "But I'm really dying to shoot you now."

A throaty laugh floated through the air like music. For a moment, it didn't matter that he hadn't yet found his new companion, or that Sherlock would kill him if he found out he'd been talking to John these past few days, it was just funny. And Earth was a beautiful planet to laugh on.

"You're a lot like him, you know. His conscience is just a little quieter than yours, and easier to ignore.

Suspicion flared in John. Why had this man come to his apartment? Why would he help him? Why did he seem to know (and like) Sherlock, despite the fact that John had never met or heard about him?

He reached a hand out to help the Doctor up, and the Doctor accepted gratefully, before hearing,"You talk about him like you've met him recently."

Stiff boards had nothing on the Time Lord in that moment. A poker player the Doctor is not.

"Recently? Well, I'm not sure I'd say that…"

"You're being evasive." John observed, a note of growing eagerness in his voice. "Why?" Silence was all that answered him, so he continued,"This is what you've been hiding isn't it? Sherlock… you've met him! You know where he is!"

"Of course, I know where he is! He's six feet under ground. Everyone knows where his. I just read about you in a newspaper, that's-"

John plowed over his words.

"No, no, no. He's alive, and you know where he is, and not only are you going to tell me how to find him, you're going to lead me to him."

Note to self, the Doctor thought, underestimating a grieving Watson is a somewhat bad idea.

Perched somewhere high in the trees, a chocolate brown Mockingbird sang a tune which drew the attention of both men.

It was Marsden's Anna.


	3. Recruitment

Babysitting duty was not what Clint had in mind when Fury said he was going on a mission. But Fury was bald, bossy (and his boss), so he didn't really have much of a say in the matter. Didn't keep him from trying, though.

"Come on, Fury, I'm a highly trained agent, not Mary Poppins." The picture he held in his hand was that of a man in his late 20's. Black, curly hair and bright blue eyes decorated his pale face, but they only served to make him look even more exceptionally pale. And his cheek bones were as sharp as arrow heads. Didn't this guy eat?

"He's not a kid, and I'm not asking you to babysit him, Barton. I'm asking you to recruit him."

"For the Avengers? Why? What makes him so special?" Clint couldn't help but notice Fury really looked like he didn't want to spit out an answer. Well, that was just too bad. He wasn't leaving until Fury talked.

Finally, after a few precious seconds had been wasted, Fury lowered his voice, and said, "He's Sherlock Holmes." It took a moment for Clint to process this information.

"Bullshit."

…..

It wasn't like Sherlock to mind being alone. He'd been living alone in a rented apartment before Lestrade roped him into living with dear Mrs. Hudson, and he certainly didn't mind living alone now.

Although, he wasn't technically without company for as long as the word "alone" might imply. The Doctor often visited him during the week, and during those visits the Doctor would play with the Wii he had supposedly given to Sherlock as a present. In between rounds of Tennis and Boxing (which the strangely dressed extraterrestrial was appallingly bad at), Sherlock would try to coax the Doctor into regaling him with tales of space, aliens, and adventure. Apparently, the ancient goofball had forgotten how many planets he'd saved.

It was strange to hear him speak of saving planets. If Sherlock saved dozens of people, and the man before him saved trillions of beings, how exactly did they compare?

Of course, the Doctor had insisted he'd simply had more time and better means to accomplish the things he had. He'd also stated that saving people who were meant to die often comes with a price. And far too many times, his friends had been that price. One time, it had been his entire home planet.

With a little imagination, Sherlock still couldn't picture himself destroying the Earth. In fact, he'd probably let the Earth destroy the universe if it meant his friends would be all right. John would be unhappy, and Molly would be disappointed, but that didn't matter. It is better to ask forgiveness from a friend, than to ask forgiveness from a corpse.

Mycroft had said all lives end, and Sherlock knew he had a point. Someday the sun would die. Someday the Earth would die. Eventually, all life on Earth would end, but that wasn't Sherlock's problem. Nor was it his problem if people he didn't know suffered while he waited for the Doctor in front of a plasma screen TV and a coffee table he hadn't wanted, with the deteriorating remnants of his genius intellect leaking out his ears.

How long had it been since he had solved a case? Seven months, wasn't it? Seven months ago he thought he'd be just dandy dedicating his whole life to protecting Mrs. Hudson, John, and Molly (Lestrade was a big boy, and could take care of himself.) Obviously, he'd been wrong. It was as though he had assumed he'd fall off the Earth if he sailed towards the horizon. Perhaps he had expected assassins to come after his friends everyday? Maybe a little kidnapping? Some traps would be nice!

A small part of his brain recognized that John wouldn't have appreciated that last thought.

Sitting in his lazy chair, Sherlock appeared calm. He was about as far from it as a person could possibly get without breaking the stratosphere. Before he could take his hair out or begin shooting inanimate objects, a man with wind-ruffled hair and an above average build strode through his front door, plopped down on his couch, and put his feet on Sherlock's coffee table.

Sherlock stared at the man in disbelief. He smelled distinctly of ocean breeze and fuel, but he'd obviously changed into his casual clothes recently, making him slightly more difficult to read. A tan line from a missing watch suggested this may have been the intended effect.

"Name's Barton." The man announced in a nonchalant manner, as though he were discussing the weather. "Clint Barton. You can call me Hawkeye if you like. Master's okay too."

There was an eyepiece in his ear, which Sherlock immediately recognized as military grade. The voice coming from it sounded just low enough to suggest a male, a clearly upset male. Barton didn't seem to mind lowering the volume of the earpiece, despite it plainly being his superior on the other side on the line.

"Did you come here from a navy carrier just to sit in my living room?" Sherlock ventured, but Barton just flashed him a cheeky grin as he reached over to pick up the remote from the coffee table.

"Navy carrier? Close, mate, but I'm afraid you're missing something." Sherlock frowned in consternation. Meanwhile, Barton turned on Sponge Bob Squarepants. "What? You've been watching this ghastly show?" Despite saying this, he didn't change the channel, instead watching it with subdued glee.

"Of course not." Sherlock replied with a hint of annoyance. "I sometimes entertain a guest who enjoys our culture in all its many forms."

It wasn't a surprise when Barton said his name. Why else but for his skills would a militarily trained agent stride into his living room and hijack his TV. This being the case, why didn't the man seem very interested in talking to him? Could he be waiting for the Doctor to return from.. from… What had the Doctor said he was doing again? Anyway, Sherlock supposed he would have the read the man in order to gain his full attention. Never before had Sherlock felt the need to vie against a cartoon.

"You're primarily an archer", Sherlock tried again, "But also a decent sniper. You have a female partner but your relationship is entirely platonic. However, you still feel rather protective of her, as though she were your younger sister, and you're not overly fond of me meeting her. Bad experience?" He cut himself off just as Barton opened his mouth to reply. "No, don't answer that. Not important. You came here on a helicopter, and your mission is to persuade me into helping you with whatever problem you currently have. Recently, you've suffered a loss of control, and in your free time, you do whatever you can to reassert that control. By, for instance, barging into my apartment and turning on the television."

The TV screen flickered for a few seconds, before Barton replied, "Ok. That was a little better. I am here to recruit you to join the Avengers Initiative."

Tch. This was exactly the chance Sherlock had been hoping for. But if he left, and something were to happen…

….

Clint noticed something was troubling the detective, and he could guess what it was. Apparently, the man sitting beside him had made enemies most of his life by committing the heinous crime of being himself everywhere he went. Guess 'be yourself' is a message only kids who are naturally easy to get along with can abide by.

So, after years of living alone, he moves into a flat with one Mrs. Hudson. Next comes Molly, an autopsist and a pretty thing roughly his age, then John.

Now, Clint hadn't actually read the Holmes series, but he knew John and Sherlock had something going on. For them, functioning as a single unit after meeting each other was almost impossible. It was like living with half a heart your whole life, finding the other half, and then losing it again. People don't go back to normal after experiencing a loss of that sort. For him, it'd be like losing Natasha.

And here was Sherlock, unconsciously tapping his fingers and foot like a stir crazy squirrel hopped up on heroin, but still reluctant to leave his friends to their own devices. Well, the squirrel behavior may have been normal for him. Who did Clinton know who read Sherlock Holmes? Maybe he'd ask Stark.

Anyway, poor guy finally gets some friends, then a psychopath farts on his reputation, and then he jumps off a roof. Didn't have to be Bruce Banner to see what happened there.

"It's alright", Barton's voice softened, "We know what happened to you. We know Moriarty threatened to kill your friends if you didn't off yourself, but Fury can have Shield agents put on protection duty in a New York minute. Just name the place and they'll be there." Relief shone in the young detective's blue eyes and Clint felt an odd sense of accomplishment.

"Well, I don't see any harm in listening." Sherlock grumbled, obviously embarassed.

Clint made a mental note to tell Sherlock how much harm could come from listening in the near future. "Tell me more about the Avengers Initiative."

"Right. Ok then. Originally, the name of the Initiative was going to be "The League of Friendship", because the Director's a brony, but I said "The Avengers" was a much cooler name." Squawking from Clint's earpiece and a wince clued Sherlock into the fact that his guest wasn't being entirely reverent or truthful.

"Avengers usually avenge an injustice that has already been committed. Do you, as your name suggests, avenge injustices rather than work to prevent them?"

"You're asking if we sit on our butts all day and wait for something bad to happen?"

"Yes." Suddenly, Clint had an idea of why Sherlock might rub some people the wrong way. That didn't give them a right to crucify him, but, kind of like Stark, close proximity to Sherlock could probably bring out the asshole in most people.

"I'd say we're more effective at avenging, but we're also pretty decent at the preventing part. Some", he faked a cough, "Captain America's more so than others. We saved the world, you know. Have you saved the world?"

Sherlock gritted his teeth. This was starting to become unbearable, "No, I have not."

"No, you say? Well, isn't that something. Even I helped saved the world, and I'm just a lowly archer."

Sherlock gave him a withering look. "That's quite enough of that."

"Right. Well, we have two scientists on our ship, and a state of the art lab for them to work in. Sometimes one of them will poke the other with a cattle prod, but that's totally normal." Sherlock nodded his tacit agreement. "For them" Clint added. "It's totally normal for them. Not for the rest of the world."

Blue eyes widened in surprise, and Clint sighed. Why was it his team that had to have all the weirdo's on it?

"Anyway" Clint continued, "We only need you for a little while. Just enough to get us back to where we came from, and hopefully keep Loki off our tail."

The atmosphere grew tense at mention of his name, and Sherlock promptly sat up straight in his lazy chair.

"Now see here," Sherlock said. "I've accepted the possibility of other worlds supporting intelligent life recently, and if you're about to tell me you're being chased by the God of Mischief-"

The archer snorted, "You'll what, Sherlock? You'll think I'm pulling your leg? I have the God of Thunder on speed dial. He doesn't know how to use a cell phone, but I have him on speed dial nonetheless. Unless, he's broken his phone recently… Again."

Sherlock tried to take a moment to absorb this. A team of at least two agents, two scientists, one of whom had no qualms experimenting on people with cattle prods (Sherlock really wanted to meet him), and a technologically challenged god, needed his help to get back to where they came from. A month ago, the Doctor had come here from a separate dimension with his Tardis, looking for a new companion. If there wasn't a connection here, he'd eat his hat.

"Does this have anything to do with the Doctor, perchance?"

Clint looked at Sherlock as though he'd just grown another head, then his face clouded over.

"The Doctor?" he snarled. "That's the bastard who got us into this mess! What did he think would happen would he used his twice damned broken time machine to find himself a girl, while still on our ship! It dragged us with him, that's what happened. I'm never letting him on our ship again. Next time I see him, I'm going to fill him full of arrows, and then feed him to Natasha."

In the small time the two had known each other, the Doctor had certainly shown a few signs of carelessness. For instance, he often moved the body parts in the fridge and microwave without first asking for permission, but could he really unintentionally carry a whole almost-navy carrier through space and time with him?

They settled into silence for a while. Barton changed the channel to the news, and a harried news anchor blinked into focus. H was a man of middling height in his late 30's, and his report mentioned something about freak rainfall in Cardiff. The strange thing was: the rainfall consisted entirely of frogs. Suddenly, the God of Mischief being more than just a mythological scapegoat, created by men to explain away their misfortune, seemed rather plausible.

The man beside Sherlock acknowledged the news with a grimace. "At least he's just being a nuisance right now. Usually he's full blown bow-down-to-me crazy. To tell the truth, I don't know how you're going to be of any help."

"Well, that should be obvious. Three people with above average IQ are better than two, even against the likes of a god. For as long as my friends are safe, I'm happy to show you how useful I can be."

The TV turned off with a blip, and Barton rose from his seat. He glanced over at Sherlock as he stretched, and felt himself relax upon seeing how confident the young detective was. Sure the guy looked like he hadn't eaten, slept, or seen the sun in months, but he had guts, and that counted for a lot in the Avengers. Still, once they got back to the helicarrier, he was going to make sure the detective got a good meal, a change of clothes, and a shower. Maybe a nap.

"I get the feeling a certain God of Mischief is shaking in his boots right now."

"Oh, I hope not." The detective stood up as well and brushed off his jacket, before flashing Barton a fierce grin. "He hasn't even met me yet."

* * *

A/N: First off, Hawkeye is not supposed to be the movie version. If you've ever seen Avengers:Earth's Mightiest Heroes or possibly just wondered what the character would be like if Hugh Jackman played the role, that's what I'm going for. As for the line, "That's the bastard who got us into this mess." Think "That's the bastard who gave me this card." from Yugioh GX abridged on Youtube.


	4. The Helicopter Ride

The helicopter Barton insisted Sherlock ride in had a perfectly good door. The door could open, and it could close, as doors tend to do, but Barton refused to close the helicopter door, as he much preferred to watch Sherlock squirm.

"What have I done to make you despise me so?" Sherlock asked, as the helicopter began to reach heights he knew to be fatal. Well, fatal for most people. Given enough time to prepare, he could probably fall from them and live.

He'd done it before.

Barton, his seat belt unbuckled and his posture relaxed, said from opposite Sherlock, "Hate you? That ain't the case at all, mate. This is how all the cool people sit in helicopters."

White knuckles gripped Sherlock's seat belt until the bones looked about ready to pop. From far away, he might have passed for a marble statue, just, you know, a seething I'll-rip-your-head-off-with-my-teeth marble statue. Were he not currently paralyzed; the detective had no doubt he would be spending this lovely flight strangling his companion.

Said companion, now in an absurdly tight sleeveless shirt and pants, leaned over his seat, peering down at the ground with a cocky grin taking up residence on his face.

He spoke into the microphone hanging from his yellow two-way headphones. A similar pair also graced Sherlock's curly mop of hair. "Hey, Sherly, you really should look down. We're sooo high up, ya know? I bet we can see your flat from here." The man leaned over his seat and craned his neck so he could get a better look outside.

"Silence!"

"Is that a bird?" Sherlock was certain no bird had passed. "Well would you look at that? A bird just flew past us. How high do you think we are, exactly?"

"I hope you fall."

"That's not very nice."

"You're right" Sherlock amended. "That was rude. Please fall. You would be doing the world a favor if you did."

The helicopter descended abruptly, Sherlock's stomach flew up to his throat, and Barton clipped his head on the ceiling. The string of curses he uttered as he sat in his seat and buckled his seat belt were vastly amusing, both to Sherlock, and to the pilot.

"David!" Barton snapped. "you did that on purpose, you slippery weasel."

Completely unapologetic, the pilot gave a quick salute to what Sherlock could only assume was his superior. A look of extreme annoyance passed over Barton's features, then, like a cloud, it passed.

He glanced at the electronic watch he'd put on after he'd changed clothes, and said, "Alright, Sherlock, it seems we've got about 10 minutes before landing, so I'm going to let you in on a little secret: the codenames of my teammates. We've got the obscenely perfect Captain Wonderful, the Tin Man, The Jolly Green Giant, and Thor." In the front seat, the pilot seemed to have swallowed a bug or something equally unpleasant. Barton ignored him, excepting one rather potent glare at the pilot's headrest. "That last one is Loki's brother, but I suppose you already knew that?"

Sherlock scoffed. "Obviously."

"Alright, now here's the deal. If you can identify each one by their name before they introduce themselves, I will give you fifty American dollars. Deal?" The pale man sitting across from Barton, who had only seconds before been gripping his seatbelt like it was the only thing keeping him from falling into an abyss, smiled.

"You might as well just give me that fifty dollars right now, Agent Barton. I've solved harder puzzles in my sleep."

Well, the detective finally seemed something other than terrified. That was good. When the kid first saw the helicopter he looked like a small breeze could have blown him over. Okay, maybe kid wasn't the right word, he wasn't that much younger than himself, but there was something about him that seemed young. Treating him like the annoying little brother he'd never had just felt right, you know?

And besides, Clint couldn't wait to see the look on his teammate's faces when they heard their new nicknames.

* * *

**A/N: Hi:) Sorry for the length, but this is just to let followers know that this story is being continued, and next chapter will be aptly named, "Meet The Avengers", so be excited. Be very excited.**

**In case anyone wondering, Sherlock knows those aren't their real names... He just doesn't care very much. Considering he'll be meeting The Hulk, maybe he should start**


	5. Meeting The Avengers

The six members of the Avengers sleep in barracks when they are on duty. This means Nick Fury can scream into the intercom, waking them up in a brutal fashion whenever it so please him, which was pretty much every day of the week.

Like so, "RISE AND SHINE SLEEPING BEAUTIES!" The announcement was met by groans and curses as heads became intimately acquainted with top bunks and ceilings. "YOUR NEW TEAMMATE IS GOING TO LAND IN TEN MINUTES, SO I NEED ALL OF YOU DRESSED AND READY TO MEET HIM ABOVE DECK IN FIVE."

Bruce Banner, Tony Stark's exceptional roommate, rubbed gingerly at the sore spot on his forehead, checking for any permanent dents as Tony hopped down from his top bunk. "You know, Tony" he started. "Being woken up like this every morning is starting to make me kind of-"

Tony cut him off. "If you say angry, I'm asking for a new roommate. No green bean hopped up on steroids is going to muss my perfect hair." His hair was actually disheveled and far from perfect.

Noticing this, Bruce cast him a cheeky grin, "I was going to say hungry."

A shirt swooshed over Tony's head – he goes to sleep in boxers – as he replied in a slightly muffled voice, "You liar."

"Nope. Scout's honor."

"You were never a boy scout."

A light chuckle filled the cramped room, "Nope."

* * *

Bruce and Tony were not the two most physically imposing men as they make their way through the twists and turns of the helicopter's underground. It's small and claustrophobic, but Tony refuses to let his friend walk anywhere other than right beside them, so they deal. When people pass, like Agent Smith, they have to stop and talk to Tony if they want to keep moving. With green eyes and red hair, plus a few freckles, Smith looked younger than his twenty-eight years. It may have been due to this that Tony took suck joy in teasing him.

"Hey, George," Tony shouted cheerily as Smith moved to sidestep him, a difficult maneuver in close quarters, but he was desperate.

Irritated that he couldn't he through, the agent 'corrected' Tony through clenched teeth,"It's Smith."

"Smith? Like Will Smith?"

"No."

"Like John Smith?"

"No."

"Okay, okay, don't tell me, I got this. Is it Mr. Smith? Tell me it's Mr. Smith."

"Yes," The agent drolly replied. "My name is Mr. Smith. And you can call me Agent Mr. Smith, Mr. Stark."

"Okay, Agent Mr. Smith." Tony moved to let the man pass, a triumphant grin on his face. Smith's hand twitched at the Taser strapped around his hip for a few minutes afterwards. Noticing this, Banner sighed.

"Why do you have to do that?"

Tony blinked. "Do what?" They'd reached the ladder that led to the top deck when Banner brought the subject up, and the wheel on the latch the millionaire philanthropist was trying unscrew was proving itself to be another one of those silly inanimate objects who just do not like him.

"Make them hate you." Banner clarified, to Tony's chagrin. "The agents here look at you and they see an annoying, arrogant jackass."

"That's because I am an annoying, arrogant jackass." A grunt escaped when Tony finally gave up on turning the wheel, having finally decided to just try ripping the latch from its hinges Hulk-style."

A new voice said, "Yeah. But we know you're more than that." The sweaty form of Steve Rogers, punctual as always, appeared behind Banner. He'd gotten up early so he could train in the gym. The serum may have given him an incredible physique, but he felt it was his duty to maintain it.

Gently motioning for the abashed Stark to step down, Rogers climbed up on the ladder, easily opening the latch. Fresh air rushed into the below deck, cooling all of them.

"I loosened it for you." Tony grumbled. "Someone needs to tell Fury his latch needs some WD-40." They climbed out one by one with Rogers helping Banner and Stark out. A slight grin from Tony let him know that there weren't any actual hard feelings from being shown up. There was a time when Steve had asked his friend if he wanted to train together, but Tony had just pointed at his head and said, "I already have all the muscle I need." Of course, the brain is actually an organ, but Tony is an engineer, not a doctor. Though, he could probably do brain surgery if he wanted to.

Up on deck, men and women rushed back in forth like panicked ants, setting up weapons and perfecting protocols so they would be prepared for any eventuality that may occur while they were trapped in an alternate dimension. In the sky, Thor was patrolling, looking for his brother and any traces he may have left, like mayhem and general chaos.

Director Fury was waiting by the landing deck for his top agent and Sherlock Holmes to arrive. Deep down, he was excited to meet one of his childhood idols in the modern day, but not a single soul on his ship could tell by the grim look on his face that he was practically hopping in his boots.

Seeing a helicopter in the distance just as Steve, Tony, and Bruce lined up beside Director Fury, Natasha ran from her post to wait with them as well, though not before coercing a nearby SHEILD rookie into covering her engine post. She shoved her way beside Bruce, who gave her an amiable greeting, and suddenly felt the fierce wind that usually preceded, "Hello, my friends. I can hardly bare the anticipation. Will our new friend not come here at, perhaps, a faster speed?"

"Now, Thor, you remember how angry Mother got the last you brought home a helicopter, right, Fury?"

"I'm not your Mother, Stark."

Within five minutes, a helicopter carrying a genius detective and two SHEILD agents had landed in front of them. Before the engine had even stopped, a pale man with a messy mop of hair and a long balck coat rushed out from the doors and threw up over the side of the ship, to the groans of anyone whose job it was to clean the sides and windows of the helicarrier. So far, the Avenger's first impression of Sherlock Holmes was less than impressive.

Once Sherlock was finished wretching, he turned on Clint Barton without even bothering to acknowledge that there was now nearly a whole ship full of people watching him,"I hate you."

"Oh, come on." Barton said the moment he climbed out of the helicopter. "You don't mean that."

"No, I really do."

"I thought you were getting used to it."

"SO YOU UNBUCKLED MY SEAT BELT?!"

Tony nudged Banner with his elbow, who turned to show that he was listening for whatever pearl of wisdom Tony was about to spout. "I think they like each other."

Meanwhile, Fury was glaring daggers at his top agent, saying in a low voice, "Agent Barton, you unbuckled his seat belt?"

"Uh… No?"

During Clint's epic chewing out, courtesy of one very testy Nick Fury, who had earned his name ten times over, Sherlock walked over to the line of people who seemed to be wearing some sort of close fitting, navy blue, one piece suit. From a glance at their posture, he could tell the material was state of the art and lightweight.

Before him, was a large man with long, blond tresses, wearing an old-fashioned armor, holding an old fashioned hammer, and who was wearing a dopey grin that was distinctly reminiscent of a Labrador Retriever.

Next to that man, was a woman who couldn't have been too far over one hundred pounds, five feet three inches. Full, pouty lips hid the steel inside her. Both of her legs held two guns and an assortment of hidden pockets held knives.

Further down was a stout, average sized man with the build of someone who spent much more time in a lab than outside, which was exactly the sort of build Sherlock usually preferred. From the alignment of his body, the other man at the end – or beginning, depending on your point of view- he was friends with the taller, though not by much, and similarly built man next to him.

By his manicured nails and professional haircut, Sherlock could tell this last man had money.

Not that it mattered much to him.

Though the very last man may have had light blond hair, he was nothing like the first. He wore his hair in a tight buzz cut, and hold himself stiffly, as though it were just another day in an army squadron for him. Sherlock smiled to himself, though he tried to hide the slight lift of his corners from prying eyes. He had yearned to see a soldier, and here was a soldier. He had yearned to see a doctor, and before him stood at least two men with PhD's. Certainly, he'd almost gotten what he'd wished for.

"Hi" Tony started, his hand held out for a shake. "I'm-"

"Don't speak to me" Sherlock admonished. "I'm concentrating." Tony, who'd been getting a good first impression so far, abruptly changed his mind. A long slender finger struck him on the chest, "You're the Tin Man, aren't you?" In response to the blank stare he received from all six of the Avengers, the detective exhaled a frustrated hiss. "Are you or are you not the Tin Man?"

Quick to realize the situation was going south fast, Clint trotted up to Sherlock's side, "Yep, that's him."

"Of course he is." Sherlock pointed to Steve, who, bewildered, also pointed to himself. "You're Captain Wonderful." Natasha stifled a snort, but then, to her alarm, the detective jutted Bruce Banner. At the gesture, Steve looked like he was about to panic, Thor gripped Mjolnir, and Tony raised an eyebrow "And by process of elimination, you're the Jolly Green Giant. And that will be $50 in cash. Pay up."

True to his word, Clint reluctantly and painfully shelled out fifty dollars in cash.

"That was for a bet? Do you really think embarrassing three of your teammates was worse a few seconds of amusement." Fury squawked.

Not even the slightest bit abashed, both Clint and Sherlock replied, "Of course it was." Natasha turned her head and lifted her hand to hide her smile.

Just as Clint was about to suggest Sherlock introduce himself, and then go get some food in him, a blue telephone box began to appear on the side of their ship. Immediately, he was frothing mad. Because who else would be appearing in a giant blue telephone booth if not the Doctor?

Fury must have been thinking the same thing because his right hand rested on the gun at his waist.

Although the Doctor appears to be around his late 20's, with an anomalously large chin, he is actually over a thousand years old, and he has seen both the beginning and the ending of many worlds, including theirs. It was also his fault, thanks to a malfunctioning Tardis, that they were all trapped in an alternate, and in England. That's right. They were trapped in English waters.

If they stayed still, the crew and Fury hoped no one would notice an unauthorized, American airplane carrier in the water. At the very least, they hadn't been questioned or reported yet. If they were, Fury had no doubt the Americans would deny any knowledge of them, but it would still generate a suspicion between the two countries that was unacceptable. And again, this was all the Doctor's fault... including the frogs in Cardiff.

"Oh, hello everyone. The Doctor said as he took note of the hostile faces around, which made his decision to exit the Tardis rather imprudent in hindsight. Another man came tumbling after him, his eyes wild and bloodshot.

Clint immediately pinned the man as an angry and exhausted looking hobbit. If everyone else could hear his thoughts, and had seen Lord of the Rings, it is doubtful that they would disagree.

"Where's Sherlock?" The tawny haired man asked, before his eyes were seemingly drawn to the exact place where Sherlock stood. Tony, who was thoroughly confused, asked Bruce if the man who had just insulted them was supposed to be Sherlock. In reply, he got a nonchalant shrug, which was oh so very helpful.

"Sherlock! You're alive!"

* * *

**A/N: If you see any errors, please let me know. I don't have a beta so I miss things. Anyway, I hope you like this chapter, and if you have the time, please review. **


	6. Don't Ask

The man – a few SHEILD agents guessed he was John Watson, based on the fact that their lives were just like that – ran towards the alabaster skinned detective, and either tried to embrace him or throttle him. Maybe he was trying to do both.

"I should kill you for making me think you were dead." The doctor started as he broke his Hippocratic Oath by strategizing strangling Sherlock in a modified hold that would do not long term damage, but that would also be incredibly and increasingly unpleasant to endure. "Do you have any idea what you put Mrs. Hudson and Molly through? What you put me through?"

The Avengers watched these proceedings with interest, wondered of they should intervene, remembered their nicknames, and then decided against it.

"John," Sherlock gurgled out. "You're defeating the purpose of my faking my death. This may come as a shock, but I faked it so I wouldn't have to die."

The doctor reluctantly released the hold he had on his not-dead friend, who coughed and sputtered before he could stand up straight and say, "As always, it is good to see you, John. How are Molly and Mrs. Hudson? And why is there a banana in your holster?" It was true. Instead of a Glock, there was a shiny, yellow banana in his holster. This could be explained both by the extended amount of time John had spent with the Doctor and by the fact that he'd pickpocketed the Doctor's sonic screwdriver to use as leverage.

"They- A banana? " He spun around, turning to face the Doctor with a scowl on his face. Growling, he said,"You picked my gun."

Whimsically spinning a loaded pistol around his index finger, the Doctor replied, "And you picked my screwdriver when you helped me up a few minutes ago. I say, we trade."

"Whatever." John tossed him the banana, and then held his hand out, waiting for his gun.

With a sigh of eternal suffering, the Doctor clarified that he wanted his screwdriver back, not the banana. Tony pointed out that bananas are full of potassium, and that if no one wanted the banana, he would take the banana. Seeing no problem with this, John tossed him the banana – Bruce promptly asked if Tony would break it in half, since being a giant green rage monster burns a lot of calories- and then he reluctantly traded the screw driver, taking it out of his jacket pocket, for the pistol.

Sherlock rose an eyebrow archly when he noticed the flicker of disdain that crossed the Doctor's face upon his relinquishing the pistol. It was surprising that he'd even been able to hold the gun, let allow use it as a bargaining chip.

Once that was settled, Fury made to take the Doctor aside, but the Doctor ran back into his Tardis. "I'll be back to take you home. I sware. Just give me an hour." The Tardis whirred and whistled as Fury ordered the men who had drawn their guns and Thor, who wanted to see Jane again, to stand down. They couldn't afford to damage the Tardis, and the Director knew enough about the Doctor to know he kept his word. Therefore, they just needed to last an hour, and hopefully, they wouldn't meet Loki in that time.

Turning back to his team, Fury formally introduced Sherlock Holmes, their new teammate, and Dr. John Watson, who wasn't supposed to be there.

Steve, Tony, and Bruce suddenly found themselves having the best day of their lives. "Hey, Sherly" Tony asked, much to Sherlock's consternation. "Can you do something detective-y, like psychoanalyze us or something? I mean, prove your actually Sherlock Holmes."

John's face blanched as that familiar feeling of horror washed over him. It'd been a long time since he'd seen Sherlock psychoanalyze anyone, but unless Sherlock's personality had done an one-eighty, he was about to grievously offend five people who were much taller, excepting the woman, and stronger, hopefully excepting the woman, than he was.

"Sherlock" The detective's friend and protector started, "please don't. I've only just found out you were still alive, and I'm not in the mood to go to your funeral again."

Unfortunately, once invited, Sherlock could not be convinced not to do his 'detective-y' thing. He strolled up to Stark, who had a waggish grin on his face, then walked past him so he could start at the end of the line. Steve Rogers looked uncomfortable, he wasn't the one who'd asked Sherlock to prove his identity, but the detective still gave him a quick overview, saying, ""You're a soldier who seems to think he's from the 1940's. Or you are from the 1940's. Am I, per chance, talking to a man who should in all probability be dead by now?"

Some of the SHEILD agents flinched. They knew how hard it had been for Steve to wake up in a time when everyone he'd known and loved was either dead or dying, but Sherlock wasn't thinking about that at all. He was looking at a scientific breakthrough, after all.

"Um, yes?"

"How fascinating! How did that happen?"

Steve shrugged. "I was frozen in the ice for a few decades."

A bemused look came over Sherlock's sharp features, "Cryogenics?" He asked. "But that hasn't been perfected yet. You should be dead."

"And I tell myself that everyday."

Suddenly, John elbowed Sherlock, who turned to him as if to ask, "Not good?"

"Not good." Sherlock switched to Tony Stark, who'd been hopping impatiently until around the end of Sherlock's psychoanalysis. Now, he was a little angry.

"You put on an arrogant façade in order to hide the fact that on the inside you're insecure about the difficulty you have connecting with your peers on an emotional level. You also worry deeply about what sort of man you are." Steve's eyes widened at that. "Are you worthy enough to be a hero? Are you strong enough to protect anyone? And what if you fail? A father figure would do you some good, since most of your commitment issues stem from your perceived parental neglect, hence Tin Man-"

"It's _Iron_ Man."

"But since you seem to have none- a man your age should already be a father himself, after all - I suppose I could have a go at it" John cast him a warning look, so he continued,"though I doubt I'd make a very good one."

"Not on your life," Tony snarled, having had one too many buttons pushed. A look at John showed him mouthing, 'Please don't punch him'. Stark gave a tacit nod to that. Technically, it was his own fault and, knowing Sherlock Holmes from the novels and those two movies with that actor he really liked, he should have known the guy would bring up so issues he'd rather not discuss.

"Right then. Dr. Banner" A small gasp went through every agent, Avenger and doctor who was on deck, though the doctor didn't know why everyone else was gasping, "you think you're a monster. Hardly. It would seem your self-loathing has driven you to suicide before, but I'm certainly relieved to find you alive and well. Mentally stable, even."

Bruce replied, slightly uncomfortable, "Thanks… I think."

For some reason, Bruce got the nicest reading.

"You want to try psychoanalyzing me?" Widow inquired, a threat hidden in the seemingly harmless tone of her voice.

After a moment's deliberation, Sherlock replied, "No. I sense I've done something wrong. John, should I apologize?"

John sighed. "I know you're probably out of practice, but you could give it a shot."

Just as Sherlock was about to give a semi-heartfelt apology, though it was mostly for John's sake, Tony interrupted, "You missed something in my reading, Sherly."Clint and Steve slammed their palms against their foreheads while Bruce just rolled his eyes. "I've slept with over a hundred women."

"That certainly is impressive. Are they satisfied when they wake up the next morning to find they've contracted your STD?"

Cleary panicked, or so he seemed, Tony flailed for a bit before shouting,"He's lying, Steve!" Captain America, for his part, handled the insinuation heroically. He did not - however much he may have wanted to - throttle his millionaire, playboy, philanthropist partner.

"What about you?" Widow asked, her face pinched and her eyes shining dangerously. "Everything peachy in your family."

John bristled,"Hey now-"

"Of course not." Sherlock said, with a nonchalant tone. "I hated my father. He was a cold and distant man who never had an ounce of praise or kindness to spare for anyone, not even his wife or his two sons. My brother's intelligence far exceeded my own, so it was only logical that my own efforts to earn his approval would pale in comparison. However, I fully believe my mother appreciates me more than either of them. And were my father dead, I would visit her often."

Fury clapped his hands. "Alright everyone, that's enough. I believe he's proven his identity to all of you. Now go back below deck. We still need a plan for when Loki comes here."

Thor raised his hand, to the exasperation of many. "Yes, Thor?"

"I still don't know who the pale man is. I have never heard of a Sherlock Holmes."

A venomous glint abruptly appeared in Sherlock's calm cerulean eyes, and suddenly, Thor was very much reminded of his younger brother.

"Ah, but I've heard of a Thor," hissed Sherlock. " If the myths are true, did you honestly think you could have your brother raped by a horse and he would not bear you any lingering resentment?"

"Enough, Sherlock!"

Fury yelled, "That's enough, Mr. Holmes!"

"I'm not saying a mass murderer should be excused. I'm saying he should be understood. If you understand your enemy, you can defeat them."

As a whole the team was conflicted on how they should treat their new, temporary member. In a sense, he'd just opened old wounds without much feeling or purpose other than to prove his own worth, and he'd just hurt Thor, who was like the baby of the group despite his size and age. He was the younger brother every older brother wished they looked like, but who they also didn't wish they were. For instance, no one wanted to be hated by their sibling like he was, and the mere mention of his brother could make the big guy's eyes water with unshed tears based on centuries of caring for someone who had only recently turned their back on every good memory they'd ever had. It was true that Thor wasn't perfect, or human. Heck, sometimes his team wondered if he was even completely sane, but he most definitely didn't deserve to have his flaws shoved in his face.

All this was running through their minds when Thor murmured, his voice barely catching air, "…I'm not that man anymore."

Steve had a sudden urge to take Thor away from this Sherlock Holmes. This urge was shared by many who knew him, cared for him, and liked to be near him, but when they heard what Sherlock had to say next, most of them changed their minds.

"There are two ways a man can fight: one way is with laws, and the other is with force. The first is proper to man, the second to beasts; but because the first often does not suffice, one has to have recourse to the second."

Upon hearing this, Clint smiled. It was nice to know the detective really did have a heart somewhere under all that cashmere.

Not all of the Avengers recognized Machiavelli's "The Prince", so Sherlock asked, "What have you all been reading? You can read, can't you?" Promptly losing most of the points he'd earned in his favor.

* * *

**A/N: That ending was a little abrupt, but I figured him explaining the quote would make a pretty good beginning for the next chapter. Unfortunately, I've had an outline for the story so far, and by that I mean I've had little scraps of potential paragraphs and quotes lying around. To be honest, I still have that, but not for the climatic battle between the brilliant minds of Loki and Sherlock, so I'll get to work on that. Thanks for your reviews, since they're sweet and they make me smile likes so :)**

**Edit: Some spelling mistakes were fixed, though I'll look for more**


	7. No Interruptions

_And how can man die better_

_than facing fearful odds_

_for the ashes of his fathers_

_and the temples of his Gods?_

- _Thomas B. Macaulay_

"It's not polite to speak of someone behind their back, you know." The low, serpentine voice sounded from above their heads. About fifteen feet above their heads. Floating in the air was a man with a slight build, spinning in circles. On his person was a long, flowing cloak, too warm for the summer day, and armor. The armor covered his shins, his arms, and his chest. Not only did it over him that protection that it was built for, but the way it sparkled in the sun granted the slight man, with his mischievous grin, an ethereal quality he may not have otherwise had, for he looked so very human, and yet, inhuman at the same time. Sherlock had never before seen anything like him, for not even his brother, as this man must have been Loki, carried the same inhuman quality the young man, easily Sherlock's own age in appearance, did.

The man, or god, was as intangible, as unattainable as a gust of smoke. No matter how hard you tried to catch him, restrain him, stop him, he would simply slip through your fingers, leaving nothing but soot and dust behind. A black stain on pure skin, a knife in the dark, a snake in your bed, he was all that and he was more, much more.

Thor growled a greeting as the others stared on in shock. They were unarmed and therefore vulnerable to any attack Loki could throw at them, unless you counted that SHEILD agent who readied his Gatling gun, Clint, Natasha, Thor, and Bruce Banner… You know what? They'll be fine.

In a stately voice, with each vowel and consonant receiving it's own sound and flowing motion, Loki looked down at them and said, "I'm not here to fight, brother. I want to go home as much as you."

Tony and Clint succinctly summed up what everyone present was thinking when they said, "Bullshit," but it was Sherlock who broke the tension when he endeavored to continue exactly where he'd left off in his explanation of Machiavelli's words. "As I was saying" He started. "Before your brother rudely interrupted-"

"What was that, mortal?," sneered the God of Mischief, who was now officially perturbed.

"When words fail, force must be applied. Clint told me that you've tried multiple times to speak to your brother-"

"Who's right here. Right above you." Loki's called out, much to the amusement of Stark and Banner. "Being unduly ignored."

Tony put in his two sense, "Damn right we're ignoring you."

Bruce elbowed him. "It's not ignoring if we talk to him."

"Oh, right."

Rubbing his forehead, the detective continued, "And he has only pushed you away or stabbed you. Therefore, it is now your right and your responsibility as one of the few who can face him-"

"I can take him." Bruce and Tony interjected, than they began to bicker amongst themselves on the subject.

"-to stand against him. You need not feel guilty for doing what must be done."

Thor, who had been too busy dividing his attention between his brother and his teammates, asked Sherlock if he had said anything. Sherlock's face promptly paled, which was quite a feat for a man who hadn't left his apartment in six months. The bones under his skin practically shone through.

The detectives former loft mate, rather than being insulted, found the whole situation incredibly amusing, and didn't even bother to suppress his laughter once it had bubbled up inside him.

For someone who hadn't laughed in six months, finally having something to laugh about was a big fluffin' deal.

When he didn't stop laughing some few seconds later, Sherlock went from merely irritated to mildly concerned that he had somehow broken his only favorite friend. He needn't have worried, though, as there was no longer anything in John Watson's life that needed fixing. Nor was there anything in the man himself that was broken. With confidence, he could finally, finally say that he was okay- that things were okay again.

It was mind boggling to the God of Mischief that his presence was being taken so lightly. Only Thor still seemed eager to rip his throat out with his bare hands, but even he was gradually beginning to mellow, his shoulders gradually loosening due to the influence of the nonchalant atmosphere around him.

"This has been fun" Loki finally said once the wind was completely taken out of his sails and only the SHIELD agents were still paying him any hostile attention, "but isn't about time Fury ordered his dogs to stand down so I can help you return to your dimension?"

"I'm sorry" Sherlock asked. "Who are you again?"

The Norse god hissed, "You know me, mortal."

"Wrong. I only know things that matter. Therefore, I don't know you. I, on the other hand, am Sherlock Holmes. I'd say it was a pleasure to make your acquaintance, but then I'd be lying."

* * *

Clara Oswin Oswald was a beautiful girl, with chestnut hair that flowed down the curves of her back. Her favorite color was red, and her favorite shampoo was honey-scented. This would lead to the nickname only her father was allowed to call her by: Honey Roasted Chestnut.

It was her friend's idea to visit the graveyard. There was no reason for her to complain about the trip, though, because she didn't believe in ghosts, and ghosts were the only things in graveyards that could possibly lead to fear. Well, ghosts and maybe zombies. Among the gravestones was one Clara Oswin Oswald. This was by no means a coincidence, but if want the Doctor wanted to do ran smoothly, that gravestone would disappear, and so would he.

It wasn't too long before Clara noticed the strange man in the bow tie standing at the front gate. For some reason, he seemed familiar to her, though she couldn't quite place it, she had a feeling that he might be important. Or fun.

Abandoning her friend to her gravestone and winged statue perusal, Clara walked over to the man at the front gate, who seemed to begin fidgeting nervously upon seeing that he had caught her notice.

"Hello" She said upon reaching him. "What's your name?"

He looked over his shoulder inquiringly, then pointed to himself. "My name?" There was no one around him, not behind him, not beside him, and certainly not above or below him.

She laughed, a clear, musical sound. "Yes, of course I mean you."

"It's… James Smith. I mean, John Smith. I was just passing through and noticed… absolutely nothing at all." Clara raised an eyebrow at the sentence switch.

"Well, James Smith, I mean, John Smith, you're trying awfully hard to be boring and uninteresting. And failing exceptionally might I add." Another sweet laugh filled the air."Funny thing though. I f you had been trying to interest me, I may have found you very boring indeed. But on the whole, I find you rather intriguing."

The man vehemently shook his head, "Oh, no. I'm not interesting at all. Completely boring, that's me." Then he spun on his heel, and left, internally congratulating himself on no doubt saving her life by not involving her.

Clara, not knowing anything other than a strange, fidgety man had just peaked her interest, followed him.


	8. The End

Fury was beginning to wonder if recruiting Sherlock was a mistake, but Watson was still just happy he was alive. As for the others, they still weren't quite sure what to make of the detective, but if he could stand up to Loki like that, he could totally hang with them.

After a while and quite a bit more bickering, one of the most infamous mass murders from Asgard, an likely the only mass murderer from Asgard, lowered himself down onto the helicopter, where he was promptly flanked by his brother, hammer at the ready, and Clint Barton, his hand just itching to fire an arrow through the God of Mischief's smug face.

While this was going on, John finally started asking who the people around them were, what they were on, since when were Norse gods real- important questions like that.

The Director wasn't in the mood to answer these questions, so Steve, who had taken an immediate liking to John, did his best to answer them on the way down, while ignoring Tony's occasional and sarcastic gems of input.

John filled Sherlock in on how Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Mycroft, and Molly were doing. Molly never smiled, Mrs. Hudson hardly laughed when he phoned her, though she did try, Lestrade was much the same as far as John knew, they didn't speak much, and Mycroft… they didn't speak at all.

The detective advised his friend not to mention any of those names in front of the God of Mischeif as Sherlock did not think he could successfully fake another suicide.

Loki, who was walking a few paces in front of them due to the closed quarters, chuckled. As if he would waste his time hunting the friends of a lowly mortal.

The cage Loki had been locked in before had been repaired in his absence, and despite his protestations that he was there under decidedly non-hostile intentions, that was still his destination. Thor protested the entrapment of his adopted brother, but Fury would hear none of it. Either he stayed in the cage or he would be forcibly ejected from the ship.

The God of Mischief snorted contemptuously at the threat, "As if you lot could get rid of me."

In the end, it was arranged that Loki would be locked in the cage and Sherlock would play his therapist/try to find out information. John insisted on attending, as did Thor, though only John's request was considered reasonable as Fury knew they wouldn't get a lick out of Thor's brother if he was present. It would be like trying to wring water from a rock.

When Sherlock was finally left alone (excepting John) with his "patient", the man immediately began to pace, complaining about his captivity like a spoiled child.

"This cage is so boring, I fear I may go mad." John rolled his eyes at the theatrics. "So, Sherlock Holmes," he sneered. "Tell me, what qualifies you to study me?"

"I'm a detective."

"A detective? Why?"

"That's a good question. First, let's make one thing clear. From what I've gathered, you've met quite a few heroes. Do not make the mistake of thinking I'm one of them. Now that that's out of the way, I believe there are three separate answers to your question, and all of them are true. Do you still wish to know?"

"Enlighten me."

"Answer number one: I need answers to solve. I will go insane without questions and mad without answers. Answer number two: My brother, Mycroft, is not a detective. Therefore, he cannot best me at it." Loki's ears perked at this unexpected similarity between the two- resentment. "And answer number three: On some level, I must believe that helping people is the best use for my extraordinary intellect." A glance was spare here for John, as it was he who brought that third answer to light.

Since the Norse god had given away, through the level of attention paid, which answer interested him the most, the detective decided that the best course of action would be to divulge more information about the tenuous relationship he had with his brother.

"It was extremely taxing, growing up with a brother who was practically a genius from birth. I was no fool, but nothing I did could ever compare to what he would do with half the effort I put in. Even now, our relationship is a strained one." Now that he had his attention, it was time to bring out the big guns. "Secretly, I always wanted to impress him, just like you want to impress your brother."

Loki barked out a bitter laugh that sounded more like a harsh cough. "Impress? I want to surpass him."

"Same difference." Sherlock waved his hand as if the difference were merely trifling. "You want acknowledgement. It doesn't matter whom it's from. You're like a rapid dog that still wags its tail if a human is willing to play with it. You bite if your kicked and you bite if you're stomach is rubbed by a gentle hand. At this rate, you will never be content."

"Then" Loki snarled as he slammed against the wall of his cage, the only thing separately the detective from a pair of hands that wanted to rip his throat out, "can you put me out of my misery? Do you dare to try?" Without hesitation, John put his gun to the glass.

The detective gave an exasperated sigh, "John, you can't solve every problem by shooting it.

John growled in reply, "You're right… Sometimes my problems shoot themselves."

From outside the room, Tony, who was listening in, said to Bruce, Steve, Clint, and Thor, who were also listening in, "Hey, wasn't that cool? He just said something really cool just now, right? Someone write that down."

After exiting the containment chamber, Sherlock turned to John, gave his haggard appearance a critical once over, and said, "Why did you come here with the Doctor? You could have lived your life anyway you chose to; why did you try to find me again?"

"Because I'm your friend, and friends protect each other, remember?" Their minds instantly flashed back to that moment when John had called Sherlock, his best friend in the world, a machine.

This led to a moment of contemplative silence, that was only broken when Sherlock said, in a small voice, "I never asked it of you. I never asked you to find me."

John smiled."Sherlock, don't you get it yet? You never had to. I wanted to find you, because I like being with you. And I know I must be barmy for that exact reason, but I just can't bring myself to care."

They both allowed themselves a smile, before the entire ship disappeared from under their feet.

"Looks like the Doctor managed to bring them home." Sherlock sputtered as he rushed to rip off his coat, shoes, and other items that might drag him down to a watery grave.

"And he couldn't bring us back first?" Miles of open sea stretched out between them and England. "Next time I see him, we're having a serious talk."

As they started swimming in the direction Sherlock swore was the area most likely to be occupied by an English fisherman who could take them back the rest of the way, John asked the detective if there was any other, less tiresome way they could reach England.

"I believe sprouting wings and flying is your next best option."

* * *

**Outtakes**

**Natasha:** What is it that makes that man [Sherlock] so attractive?

**Clint:** * sagely* It's the cheekbones.

* * *

**John:** As much as there are those who want to succeed, there are those who want to bring others down. They look up at you and resent you for it. You shine brighter than them, and they resent you for it.

* * *

**Sherlock:** Please step outside of my grill.

**Clint:** *laughing* What is that? What does that even mean?

* * *

**The Doctor:** Guns are my only weakness.

* * *

**Fury: **Remember, no one punches him. And, Tony, that doesn't mean it's alright to kick him, head butt him, or perform any action that will directly or indirectly result in his harm. Are we understood?

* * *

**Clint: **Looks like I'm being attacked by a rampaging hobbit. Better call Shield for back up.

* * *

**Clint:** Bet you can't offend them all in less than a minute.

* * *

**John:** *refering to Clint and Natasha* What do you think of Hansel and Gretel?

**Sherlock:** They're not siblings, John. Or German.

* * *

**Sherlock rooming with the Doctor**

**Sherlock: **It's been an hour since I've been irritated. Has it been an hour since you left?

**The Doctor**: ...Yes.

**Sherlock:** Ha! John always made being social sound so hard but I beginning to grasp the mechanics of it. It's actually quite simple.

* * *

**Clint reads fanfiction to Sherlock to get his attention.**

"John pulled the detective's slender body in close and whispered, "I love you". One of his tanned hands found its way to Sherlock's backside, while the other stroked his pulsing-"

The detective threw a pillow at him, growling, "Cease this infernal nonsense at once."

"And sounds of pleasure!"

"And grunting!"

"Gee, Sherly, I had no idea you were so in touch with your feminine side. Ol' Fury said you guys were close, but I had no idea you were this-

"Enough!" Sherlock shouted. "You have my attention."

* * *

A/N: I apologize for the abrupt ending. Hope you all enjoyed this story and the outtakes. Constructive criticism is welcome^^


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